


Sword Intent

by VSSAKJ



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Gunplay, Masturbation, Other, Pre-Canon, SmutSwap treat, Weapons Kink, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: Squall Leonhart dreams of metal clashing on metal.... and he likes it.





	Sword Intent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marmolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/gifts).



Garden doesn’t change.

Day-to-day, Squall Leonhart wakes, goes to classes, trains, eats, sleeps. Mundane is too kind a word for it: it’s boring. Strung along by perpetual promises of passing someday and acquiring a GF _someday_ , Squall finds himself frustratedly unengaged with his above-average grades.

Dreams are as much a waste of time as anything else, but he has one that keeps infiltrating his nights, over and over. He keeps all thoughts of it locked down deep in his heart.

It starts with him fighting Seifer. Or, well, that’s not true: it starts with him levelling his gunblade at Seifer and telling him to fuck off. Seifer, ever easy to provoke, whips out his own, shorter, gunblade and tells Squall to make him.

Then they fight.

It’s a sweaty affair, and much more aggressive than any of the times they’ve actually sparred with one another. Squall lifts his gunblade in a high two-handed grip and swings it down sharply against Seifer’s block; their blades grind together while they circle, panting and holding one another’s gaze the way animals do in combat. The muscles in Squall’s shoulders burn until his whole body feels like it’s on fire.

In his dream, he always ends up tripping Seifer and kneeling on top of him, chest heaving and gunblade pressed down firmly against Seifer’s. Seifer’s mouth moves, but Squall can never hear the words, and he pushes his blade down harder, telling Seifer to give up, he’s lost. Their bodies move, an undulating tussle with scraping metal and dripping sweat, and Seifer keeps talking, so Squall keeps replying, telling him to give up, to shut up, it’s over, it’s finished, just—

He wakes up when both gunblades fire a shot in unison, his body tense with need. In his bunk, Squall pushes himself onto one elbow and curls around his needy erection, one hand snaking into his sleep trousers before he can think.The image of his gunblade fills his head: he strokes his length the way he strokes his gunblade with thanks after combat, he squeezes his cock the way he squeezes the trigger to fire. He hears a small noise escape his lips and mines his teeth into his lower lip to keep any others trapped inside him as he pumps harder and faster, seeking the release he knows the dream was trying to give him.

When he opens his eyes as the peak of satisfaction ebbs slowly away, he can see the shadow of his gunblade case near the foot of his bed. Griever’s profile glints at him in the dark, like it had been watching him.

The thought makes him shiver, though with what emotion, he’s not sure.

 

Another dull week, another long day, another recurring dream: only this time, Seifer’s missing. Squall’s tense and eager to get started, his trusty gunblade in hand and ready for a fight, so where the hell is Seifer?

Even in his dream, he can hear himself thinking that dreams mean nothing and they’re just a way the subconscious busies itself while consciousness sleeps. There’s no meaning in Seifer’s absence—the dream’s just going to be different this time. Forcing his shoulders to relax, he lets the gunblade hang loose at his side without its tip scraping the dirt, and sets off through the space of the dream.

He’s surrounded by vast, expansive nothingness. He walks through an unchanging landscape, step after step, unable to settle the knot of tension in his belly. What was he wanting from this dream? What does he expect from this… emptiness?

He walks forever. The desolate land goes on, bleak and cracked, yawning into the distance until he sees something strange. His heart skips, his blood thrills—intriguing, enticing and strange, it’s Seifer’s gunblade, lying abandoned on the lip of a crater. Compelled by the thrum of his heartbeat in his ear and the sudden dryness in his mouth, Squall’s pace increases until he’s jogging towards the blade; as he nears it, it quivers like a living thing, then slides down into the depth of the crater.

Refusing to slow down, Squall vaults the edge of the crater to slide down the slope, his own blade raised before him as he descends. As he reaches the flat base of the crater, Seifer’s gunblade twitches again and then rises from the ground to float before him in midair. It slashes angrily through the air before plunging towards him; without a body to restrain it, Seifer’s blade whirls quick as the wind, and Squall’s grip tightens on his gunblade as he whips back and forth in frenzied blocking motions.

Within seconds, he’s soaked with sweat and gasping for air.

This time, there’s no Seifer for him to trip: instead Squall’s the one who loses his footing. He ends up on his back in the curve of the crater, gunblade angled across his chest as Seifer’s blade saws against his. Closer and closer and closer it presses, until Squall’s arms are pinned beneath the pressure and all he can move are his legs. Pushing upwards cascades red dust and dirt over his shoulders, and Seifer’s gunblade keeps _fighting_ him so he can only manage to rise halfway to his feet, teeth clenched and leg muscles burning.

Then the angle changes: the handle of Seifer’s gunblade jutts closer to his body, and Squall bites hard into his lower lip as his body responds with a rush of arousal. Before he knows what’s happened, Seifer’s gunblade is flush with his trousers, its blunt edge sliding up and down his sudden erection. Squall clenches his hands and, as his nails dig into his palms, he realises that his own gunblade disappeared from his grip—distracted by the pleasure between his legs, he fruitlessly looks around for the blade, but it’s vanished as though it had never been here in the first place. Seifer’s gunblade keeps grinding against him, and despite himself, Squall can’t keep his hips from moving in kind.

When he wakes, his sleeping trousers are wet with semen, and he’s full of guilt he doesn’t know where to direct.

 

Another week, another day: he goes to bed early. He locks his door behind him, changes into his most comfortable clothes, and folds himself into a sitting position on his bed, gazing at his gunblade case. Biting into his lower lip, Squall slides a hand down from his knee to his inner thigh, thinking—no, imagining. For once, he banishes the idea that anyone outside of this room even exists and simply lets go.

The moment he does, a jolt of heat rushes to the pit of his stomach. Squall feels his cock twitch with curious attention and digs his fingers into his thigh, running his other hand along the surface of his bedspread. It’s not good enough; it’s not what he _wants_. Committed to his course of action, Squall stands sharply and seizes the gunblade case from the floor, placing it on the bed before resuming his position, now next to it.

This is what he wanted to touch.

He skims his fingers along the cool metal surface of Griever’s profile, kneading the knuckles of his other hand into his inner thigh as he does. Not quite the lustrous, weighted iron and steel he knows and loves so well, but still a part of what makes the gunblade his. Squall’s fingers glide along the raised metal and his mouth falls open; he hears himself exhale a hot, heavy breath and lets himself do it. He’s never felt so in tune with his own body before.

Next his fingers land onto the smooth leather case and his cock twitches again, despite him not touching it. It’s impossible not to imagine how the sumptuous material would feel all over his body—on the back of his neck, on the small of his back, on the underside of his balls…

Before Squall can catch himself, he’s pushed his trousers down halfway and risen up on his knees, moving the gunblade case… only now, now he’s decided that he doesn’t want the damn case at all, and he scrabbles at the metal clips holding it shut. When he does finally manage to flip them open and lays eyes upon his gunblade itself, his cock throbs.

Well-oiled and in fine condition if he says so himself, Squall doesn’t think it’s ever looked so beautiful before. Maybe this is the first time he’s actually let himself see it. Gingerly, he slides his penis free from his underwear and shuffles closer, letting its tip hang down until it just kisses the sheen of the blade.

Squall hears himself grunt with pleasure and his cock jumps again; he holds his length in one hand and strokes it firmly while caressing the gunblade with his other hand. He matches the motions of his hands on both the blade and his dick: long, light skims followed by strokes with a single thumb, wavy descents followed by firm ascents. He’s so hard. He’s already so hard.

Careful but also desperate for more, he wraps his hands around the gunblade and lifts it from the case, angling the sharp biting edge away from his body. He moves—he doesn’t know how he arranges himself, but he wants his balls flush against that metal, and that’s what he has. The moment his entire length comes into contact with the cool iron blade, he exhales a deep, satisfied sigh. He never knew it would feel this good.

Gentle and slow to start with, Squall’s hips start to rock. He concentrates on holding the gunblade in a safe position, but eventually finds himself distracted both by watching his penis sliding up and down against the metal as well as the _feel_ of it. He’s oiled the blade so many times—more than he could ever count—and yet he never realised the oil would… could feel so wonderful. He closes his eyes and listens to the thick slapping sound of his balls hitting the gunblade, letting himself be engulfed by the sensation.

When he sees the sliver of whitish streaks following his thrusts, he can’t help but move faster. He releases his grip on the gunblade and lets it lay flat on his bed, letting himself kneel above it as his dick strains for attention. Sitting back on his heels, he takes hold of himself: one hand curls around his balls and kneads them firmly, while the other seizes his cock and squeezes it tightly, making tiny twisting motions on the head just to tease out that last inch of pleasure.

Letting out a deep moan, Squall feels the ejaculate course from his penis, spurting between his knuckles and dribbling down onto the gunblade: sloppy splashes of white streaked against dark gunmetal grey.

He exhales, thinking about… well, he thinks maybe it wasn’t such a bad dream after all.


End file.
